


When witches let themselves burn

by thestormislovely



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:07:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21630616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestormislovely/pseuds/thestormislovely
Summary: Cassian Kaialani had a peculiar way of expressing his desire for a meaningful life, and in return, what seemed to be the universally accepted definition of “a meaningful life” was peculiar to him. When Lord Rhysand Sayyadi makes him an offer he can not refuse, he finds himself in the position of playing a very dangerous game of deceit against an opponent that, he will later find out, is above any that he had faced before. With war knocking on Prythian’s door, the masks are harder to take off, and every action can be the cause of a following disaster. Who is Nesta Archeron? And is her cause worth losing not only an enormous amount of money, but also the promise of a tomorrow?
Relationships: Azriel/Lucien Vanserra, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Comments: 7
Kudos: 26





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> comments make my heart happy (｡◕‿◕｡)

Cassian Kaialani had a peculiar way of expressing his desire for a meaningful life, and in return, what seemed to be the universally accepted definition of “ a meaningful life” was peculiar to him.

Twisting one of the rings on his left hand, he leaned against the remains of a burn-out building that faced the Sidra River. Night had fallen fast upon the land. No more than a hour ago the sky was painted with hues of red, embodying the kind of pictures that the rich folks would have on their walls. 

Yet, despite the harsh bite of the wind that he could feel through his tattered cloak and the unforgiving bitterness of the autumn air, Velaris appeared to be in a constant state of movement. He expected that by having to wait in what had been described to him as the “poor district” of the North Capital, he wouldn’t have to put much effort into remaining unnoticed. However, as a sickly woman carrying two hyperactive children passed through the muddy alleyway, he once again had to bow his head and hide his features with his greasy long locks and the stolen feathered bycocket on his head. Muttering and swaying his body in a drunken manner for good measure, he looked like nothing more than a piss-poor bastard.

Which, he supposed he was, but that wasn’t the point. After all, even some of the wealthiest men in his natal land could pass as stone broke in the City of Starlight.

The city was a vast, intricate, labyrinth of nosey streets and alleys, the overall ambiance of it being both alien and welcoming to his senses. Somewhere, up high, the stars already twinkled, and the moon shone, and Cassian watched as his breath formed tiny clouds in the crisp air, asking himself for what seemed to be the hundredth time what the hell he was doing. 

Before he got to chance to start drowning in his incertitude and hopelessness, the clamorous approach of a carriage startled him out of his contemplation. Cassian watched as, in the distance, the people wandering the streets moved to make space for the nobility, gawking at the shiny embroidered clothing covering the horses, and at silver details on the midnight-blue carriage itself.

A jewel in the dirt.

Cassian clenched his fists, nails digging into his palm, trying to calm his features into playful boredom. Royalty never ceased to make him want to tear the world apart with his bare bastard hands. However, considering the business he had chosen to take part in, spitting in these people’s faces would not benefit him, nor his cause. 

The carriage came to a stop in front of him, the old man on the high seat of it keeping a white-knuckled grip on the reins. His grey horseshoe mustache was doing little to hide the way his lips were set in a hard line. Cassian’s interest peaked at the tension in the air. Straightening his spine, he gave the driver a crooked grin, and watched as his top hat almost fell off due to the sharp movement of his head as he looked away from him. Shrugging to himself he focused his attention of the carriage door instead.

A few seconds passed, in which he could hear muffled voices coming from inside, and then the door was opened with the grace only one man in Prythian could muster.

Rhysand Sayyadi lazily stepped out, his high leather boots elegantly avoiding a puddle. Cassian supposed that even the dirt took pity into touching shoes that could feed some unfortunate soul for over a month. 

He met the challenge in Rhysand’s eyes with one of his own, quirking one eyebrow at the look of feline amusement that overtook his features. Pulling up the collar of his purple coat, Rhysand merely took a step aside, gesturing for Cassian to get inside. After taking a few looks left and right, he did.

He involuntarily cringed at the velvet-wrapped inside of the coach, though no sooner had the expression settled on his face, when it suddenly shifted into something else. His lips parted slightly at the sight of the woman in front of him. Her hair was a thousand shades of gold that made a completely new mosaic as she flipped it behind her shoulder. Her face was smooth, devoid of any marks of childhood illnesses, creating quite an interesting contrast with the faint scars on her neck and the fire in her brown eyes. Her red mouth shifted into a devious smirk.

“Now I must admit Rhysand”, she drawled, voice sweet as honey, eyes never leaving Cassian’s , ”that this far from what I expected a high-north Illyrian bandit to look like.” She raised a hand covered in red leather gloves to her chin, tapping lightly.

Beside him, Rhysand chuckled quietly, leaning towards the low-set table between the seats, and taking an already lit cigar. Turning his head to face the half open window, he inhaled a smoke, eyes firmly set on the night sky.

“You’ll soon find out, dear cousin, that Cassian here is one of the best men that could help us deal with the mess you so kindly dragged us into.”

The colour drained from Morrigan’s face, her playful demeanor changing into a grim look. Cassian’s eyes darted between them, maybe a little too eager to see where this conversation was going. There seemed to be a bitter dispute between the two cousins, and hell knew how much of an addict he was for spicy gossip. Not to say royal gossip -it paid well in the taverns, especially in those from the rather underdeveloped cities. 

An uncomfortable silence followed, Rhysand continuing to look out the window, and Morrigan having spaced out, biting at her lip. 

In all truth, they looked nothing alike. There was a certain darkness that surrounded Rhysand, which was amplified by his features: short black hair and skin a few shades lighter than his own. Were it not for his violet eyes, Cassian would have immeadetly assumed he was Illyrian too. Morrigan, on the other hand, was sunshine made flesh. The only thing that they appeared to have in common was the taste for the extravagance, Rhysand with his silver embroidered tunic and coat, and Morrigan with her overall red costume, accompanied by a cartwheel hat on top of her head. 

“Yeah, well,” Cassian began after realising no one was going to fill the silence anytime soon, “ how about you tell me what you want me to do, give me the money, and then part ways with me?”

The attention suddenly shifted on him, both of them looking at him with raised eyebrows.

Cassian shrugged. “I have better things to do.”

Morrigan took a look at his attire and snorted. “I bet.”

He was about to bite back, when Rhysand interfered.

“Are you aware of Prythian’s current political situation, Cassian?”

“No, and I don’t care.” he answered outright. “I am a homeless bastard. Whether you snobs get along or not doesn’t affect my state of being. I get treated like horseshit anyways.”

Morrigan pursed her lips but made no move to contradict him.

“Fair point.” Rhysand said. ”Too bad it is a lie.”

Cassian slowly turned his head towards him and grinned. 

_It was a lie_. While his previous statement might have been true, Cassian made it a priority to gather as much information as possible about anything that moved in Prythian and beyond. He was a strategist, it was only logical that he had an obsession of knowing his territory.

“Then this is about the Vanserras’ downfall.”

Five months before, a strange movement found its roots all over Prythian. Many people of high social importance had either disappeared or been killed, the only clue left behind being a strange symbol formed out of intricate lines, usually drawn with the victim’s blood. The entire territory entered a state of constant terror, and after the third identical murder, the question changing from _Who did this?_ to _When will they strike next?_.

If the information he had received was correct, than there already had been numerous meetings between the seven most important political figures of Prythian regarding this subject. Each one of them making the ties between the seven Territories to be more tense than they had previously been.

However, it wasn’t until two months ago that everything had truly gone to hell. The murders had continued, but one of them stood out specifically.

_Beron Vanserra._

Leader of the Autumn Court, had been found dead in his own room, the feared symbol that put Prythian in imbalance adorning the wall above his bed. Not only had the entire nation entered in a crisis, but Lavinia, the Lady herself, had left the territory not even a week after the disastrous event. She found shelter in the Day Court.

The eldest son, Eris, took the throne, but due to lack of experience, and a stick stuck up his ass, he found himself not being able to calm the raging people. 

Soon enough, a riot started.

The economy crumbled to the ground, and the entire Court became a complete war zone. Cassian was lucky to be far up North when everything caught fire.

Morrigan smacked her lips. “Close. We already have a man for that.”

“Oh?” He turned towards Rhysand. “But I thought I was … what was it? The best man that could take care of your mess?”

“ _One_ of the best. “ was his answer. “ And besides, Saenna Julia is no place for a … _gentleman_ such as yourself, Cassian, dear. They would behead you the moment you walked through the gates.” He ended by giving him a side-long glance, daring him to contradict him. Cassian only inclined his head. _It’s true. Capitals are no place for him period._

Rhysand returned the cigar to the table. “That’s why I sent Azriel there.” 

Cassian choked on air, which caused Morrigan to make an indignant noise followed by a soft curse.

“Azriel? As in Azriel Takuma? That son of a bitch is working for you?” he growled. He felt his blood freeze in his veins at the thought of that bastard. 

“Indeed”, Rhysand purred. “But past times are long since buried underneath the ash. Isn’t that what you highwaymen like to live by?”

He gritted his teeth, scratching his overgrown beard. He and Azriel did not exactly part ways in the most friendly way. Two years before, after an entire summer of working together, managing to rob countless people, and partying like the world was ending, the bastard betrayed him.

After one particular night of heavy drinking, Cassian woke up in the barn they had sneaked in, only to find himself alone. And not only in regard of human companionship, but also robbed of half his belongings. The crime-centered part of his brain made the judgement that at least it wasn’t _all_ of his goods. It did nothing to calm the wave of rage that overtook him, though. Especially after seeing the note that Azriel had left. _“I had to do it to you before you did it to me. More prosperity in the future, old man.”_

And _yes_ , while he _was_ planning on betraying the kid, well … he wouldn’t have done it _that soon_. He had fun. But all of that was forgotten as he started to throw around everything he could put his hand on in that barn. Throwing pieces of wood, some empty bottles from the night before, and perhaps he would have ended up demolishing the entire place, were it not for the fact that he had just gotten his face off of _Wanted_ posters, and wanted it to remain that way for at least a little longer.

Two weeks after, his face was already all over Prythian. 

“I like Azriel way better.”, Morrigan muttered, waking him up from his reverie. 

Cassian frowned. “You just met me.” 

She gave him a saccharine smile. “He shaves.” 

Cassian responded in kind. “You’d be surprised by the wonders of a bearded man”, he smirked, adding a wink for good measure. 

“Nothing above basic hygiene.” 

“I’m sorry, princess,”, he snorted, “next time I’ll make sure to stop by that fancy little salon in the middle of the mountains.” 

Rhysand clicked his tongue. “ Enough.” 

“How did you even get him to agree to working with you?” Cassian snapped, unable to help himself. 

“I have a fat wallet.” 

“Which I assume he had tried to steal and that’s how the two of you met.” 

Rhysand chuckled. 

“Indeed. Oddly enough, I frequently find myself in the position of getting robbed by stray dogs that would later end up serving to my purposes. Azriel is a shadow, knows how to blend in.” _And how to blend out_ , Cassian thought. “His skills are going to help me a great deal, and so are yours.” 

“If I’m not going to Saenna Julia, then where?” 

It was Morrigan who responded, a poisonous smile adorning her face. “ The Archeron Estate.” 

_Well, that I did not expect_ , thought Cassian. 

He looked at Rhysand, to see if she was jocking, but found no trace of amusement in his eyes. 

The Archeron Estate was situated in the Neutral Zone, in the south of Prythian, practically on the other end of the continent, sharing border with the Spring Court. It was a wealthy family indeed, one known especially for the trades they did all over Prythian, and beyond. Gaius Archeron was known as The Prince of Merchants, however the man had died the previous spring due to an ugly infection on his leg. Thus, leaving the Estate, as well as the business, in the hands of his three daughters. 

“And what reason may you have for wanting me near the Archerons?” Cassian asked intently. 

“How about you take a wild guess?” Rhysand challenged. “Take all the information you have gathered from greasy taverns and muddy alleys and tell me why I should have a pair of eyes watching them.” 

Cassian considered. 

“For starters, there has been a total of zero murders in the Neutral Zone.” 

Rhysand nodded. 

“Their old mad died and yet there seems to be little to no change in their trade pattern. If anything, it seems to have flourished.” 

“Indeed”, Rhysand drawled. “Not only had their trades remained just as good as before Gaius’ death and the Red Murders, but they have added a new partner to their list, too.” 

“Oh?” 

He took a deep breath. “The Archerons are trading with Hybern.” 

_Well, if this night wasn’t getting more and more interesting._

“Well, that’s …” Cassian started. “Do you thing Hybern is behind the murders?” 

“Could be.” responded Morrigan, taking off her gloves and revealing that her left hand had the little finger missing. “But we know that among basic goods and services, there had been some rather intriguing chemicals sent back and forth between them. Makes you wonder what use they could be to some twenty-something years old girls.” 

_Those little minxes._

“So I am to be a spy, then, ay?” 

“Yes”, Rhysand answered. “I need you to be my eyes, and my ears. In one week’s time you will be sent to their Estate, where you will work under the pretense of being a man looking for some money, and willing to be a servant for three pretentious little girls. Half of their domestics workers had left due to either the desire of being with their family during such unfortunate times, or the bitterness and utter coldness of the eldest sister. Therefore, you are going to make yourself as incospicuous as possible, while also gathering as much information as possible, which you will then offer to me. You will get more details about your mission in the week that is to come.” 

“That if I accept.” 

Rhysand blinked. “What?” 

“That if I accept to work with you.” Cassian repeated, a shit-eating grin starting to grow on his face. 

“What’s there not to accept? 

“Well I don’t know, _lordling_.” Cassian said studying his dirty nails. “How much are you going to offer?” 

Before Rhysand even got the chance to open his mouth, Morrigan ventured : “One hundred thousand.” 

It was Cassian’s turn to blink. 

“One hundred thousand _zakes_?” 

Morrigan bit her lip and said through gritted teeth “Yes.” 

Cassian put his hands behind his head and smiled lazily, despite Morrigan’s warning glare. 

“Two hundred.” 

“ _Cassian_ . . .” 

“Two fifty.” 

“Stop it, you bastard,” she hissed. 

“I could do this all day long, princess,” he winked. 

“You’ll get three hundred.” Rhysand interrupted, pining Morrigan with a glare that could freeze hell itself. Cassian made a mental note to look into whatever the two cousins had going on between them. 

“Fine by me”, he answered. “One more question, though.” 

Rhysand raised an eyebrow. 

“Where are we heading right now?’ 

The rich folks turned their head towards the window, almost melancholically. 

“The House of Wind”, said Morrigan. And then giving him an once over. “We’ll first have to make some radical changes regarding your appearance.” 

“And why is that?” 

“Because there is no way in hell Nesta Archeron is going to let a vagrant step over her threshold.” 


	2. ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is mostly world-building, so I apologize for the lack of action. I will hopefully be able to post the next chapter within the next week, and I assure you it will be more satisfactory. 
> 
> Also, this is not edited so there might be some mistakes.
> 
> Enjoy xx

_One and a half months before, Khassepata, The Day Court._

The leaves in the wind were like sails without boats, carefree and joyful. Leaning against the trunk of a weather-worn oak tree, Cassian had his head tilted towards the sky. Interlocking branches- that had grown so thickly only bright gaps of sunshine broke through - were preventing the warmth of what appeared to be the last sun-kissed day of the year from reaching his skin, which the merciful summer days had richened to a beautiful burnt umber.

With each leaf that touched the ground, the weight on Cassian’s shoulders became less and less bearable. It had installed with the first sign of autumn, and yet he had managed to strategically, and at times cowardly, ignore it so far. However, as the morning air started to feel sharp in his lungs, and the nights quickened their arrival, his worry could not longer go unnoticed.   
Four months had managed to wipe away a year’s worth of carefully planned and executed robberies. The Red Murders. Cassian could easily pinpoint the exact moment all hell broke loose over Prythian.

At the beginning of June, people all over the continent were eager to enter the warm season in full power. There was an overall state of peacefulness among the Courts, prosperous ties having been made between the seven leaders. In a matter of months, Prythian had managed to put itself back on its feet, washing away all the economical and psychological damages Princess of Dhrawynn ,Amarantha, had caused with her unexpected visit.

In one particularly unseasonable day, one week before the Fire Night Festival, Andras Denisovich, one of the highest paid merchants in the Spring Court, had been found dead in a questionable part of the woods, almost passing the Wall between Spring and the Neutral Zone. The tree on which his body was nailed to, also bore an unusual mark, drawn in what was later confirmed to be the victim’s blood. Two loops, pieced together by cursive lines, one of which was going through the center of the symbol, making it slightly look like a serpent.

Tamlin Sylvain, leader of the Court, had initially tried to cover up the entire accident, bury it deep within Spring’s tomb of decaying secrets. However , the next crime knocked on his land’s door soon after, as did the one after that, and the next, and the next… . And they crept over, crossing boundaries, reaching Autumn and Summer, then Winter, Dawn, Day, and finally Night, until their appearance spread like plague over the territory. 

Except Larsos, the Neutral Zone.

A small piece of land, at the very South of Prythian. Ruled by Nygell MacAmhalghaidh, an withered mad man with no living family, and no sense of surrounding existence, Larsos was basically free of any king. Not to be be mistaken for a land without law. Out of all eight kingdoms of Prythian, Larsos was perhaps not the wealthiest, or most legendary, but it was stable, and equable. And while it was greatly ridiculed by other nations, its lack of centered attention had served well when the murders began. Whether it was because of the unmovable strength of its three most influential families, that had set strong rules and boundaries, or pure luck, Larsos had yet to see any blood coating its land. 

If Cassian had to bet, he would say that the cold blood running through the veins of the Van Tieghems, the Dujardins and the Archerons, was enough to make any troubled murderer run the opposite direction, or at least strongly consider it. 

And whether there was something beyond cold strategic decisions and blind luck protecting Larsos, Cassian couldn’t bring himself to care. Not now, now he had to find a way in which he would shelter himself from the chaos that had erupted when Beron Vanserra became another name added to the Red List. 

He was patrolling the hidden Paths of the Autumn Court with just a few days before its king died, looking for yet another opportunity to get some money from the bonny lordlings crossing through the woods. At that point, he was thriving under the impression that things were good. He had a satchel full of coins, the sun was bright as ever, and there was not one whisper of concern in the wind that pushed him forward. 

A few days later, everything went to hell. 

The murders had already been causing him difficulties in his activities, but Vanserra’s assassination brought the chaos. Autumn’s downfall triggered a riot within its borders, though the revolt toward the current situation steadily crept into the other Courts as well. The fear, the uncertainty, the betrayal felt towards the seven High Lords, they created a tension between the people. And a business too. The prices to pass the borders went skyward, which wouldn’t have been such an inconvenience for Cassian since he never paid them, but the number of men protecting the perimeter raised too. He had wasted half of his money on going from Autumn to Day. 

The prices for food, shelter, supplies have considerably changed too, but then again, that particular fact was no bother for Cassian. 

In his rush to get out of Autumn, Cassian was faced with a vital decision to make: go North, or South. Every logical part of his brain screamed at him to go South, pass through Spring and reach Larsos, find shelter, play safe. But something held him back, and it was something more than the fear of getting face to face with a certain Van Tieghems lady. Sharp ice settled in his bones at the thought of going South, something unexplainable, and yet terrifingly convincing. And so, Cassian followed his instinct, and went North.

But how far North was he supposed to go?

He could feel the whipping winds of Illyria calling his name, but that was a game not worth getting his head into. These past few days in Day had been kind to him, and there was a deep desire for belonging tugging at his heart. He wanted to remain there, at least until the madness went away. Enjoy the warmth, the endless wonders of culinary magnificence, the clean air.

But there was a heavy weight in the pocket on his chest.

Pulling the letter out, for what must’ve been the ninth time, he sighed and began reading again, trying to find hidden meanings between the lines. And yet the words remained the same. A dim hope of a better tomorrow.

Leaning his head against the oak once again, his gaze raised, and he prayed for the leaves to offer him some wisdom.

Or at least bury him alive, wiping away any trace he had ever existed.


	3. iii

Her plants were dead.

Again.

Nesta knew Elain was in the habit of tending to them, as she did for pretty much all of the green life within the estate’s walls and beyond. She, herself, remembered to water them from time to time, thing she had been greatly scolded for by her sister, because there is, apparently, such thing as too much water for a plant.

And yet here she was, again, looking down at dead flowers.  
She didn’t particularly want to contemplate on why this only seemed to happen to her. She could already see the joke potential in it. Has surely heard said jokes while walking down the halls of the servants’ quarters, when she felt the need to escape and settle her thoughts. 

She blamed it on the location of her room anyways.

But there were times, when she let her mind wonder. When she was out in the gardens, just for the sake of being in Elain’s company, and she would lift the blanket she sat on, only to find small patches of black grass, where she could’ve sworn it had previously been green.

When, during one uncharacteristically somber summer night, an exhausted rider, clad in the common blue-and-grey uniform of Hybern, had come to their gates, dropped a package at their feet, and stormed out into the night without a word.

And the things she felt when opening that package– 

“Are you ready?”, an impatient voice drawled from behind her room’s door, putting an end to Nesta’s train of thought. She huffed, annoyed, not at Feyre’s presence, but at what it meant.

“Yes.”, Nesta gritted out. “Just a moment.”, she added, while stepping aside from the window and towards her dressing table, grabbing her brush and some hair pins to tend to her still undone hair.

In a usual Feyre manner, her sister completely ignored her statement, and went for the handle to let herself in. Only to find the door locked. “Nesta, open up.”, she said, her voice higher than previously, but still muffled by the heavy, mahogany door between them. “I feel stupid waiting alone in this stupid hall, in this stupid dress.” , Feyre whined, the sound of the handle matching her frustration.

Nesta just hummed and went back to the battlefield that was her hair. She held the hairbrush as if she carried a weapon, and let all her irritation go into untangling her brown strands, darker than her sisters’ golden ones. 

The rattling stopped and Nesta let her shoulders relax. A few seconds later, a more subtle sound began, and she barely had the time to react when the handle’s lock clicked and the door opened to reveal Feyre in all her smug glory, arms crossed, hip resting against the frame, shit-eating grin full on display. 

Nesta huffed again, and ignored her as she made her way inside the room.

As always, she was beautiful, as the forest is beautiful in its wilderness and the thunderstorm in its intensity. Nesta eyed her aforementioned stupid dress, and was inclined to agree. Presenting itself in a headache-worthy salmon shade, with an overly puffy skirt, and sleeves, the gown was a monstrosity. There was barely any space for it on Nesta’s bed as Feyre plopped on it, arms raising over her face, a miserable sigh escaping her mouth.

Nesta’s own mouth hardly had time to raise by its corners when Feyre raised one threatening finger and hissed : “ _Don’t you dare!_ ”

She raised herself up on her elbows, and continued, “I pulled one, _minuscule_ , harmless, prank on Elain, which she apparently took to heart.” She rolled her eyes. “It was three months ago, for God’s sake! I thought she had forgotten, fat mistake! I woke up today to see all of my gowns covered in fertilizer. This is the only thing Alis could get her hands on in time.”

Nesta stared at her baby sister, one corner of her mouth threatening to rise again.

Feyre squinted her eyes, “Don’t.”

Another corner up.

“ _Nesta_.”

Nesta tilted her head back, letting out a snorting, joyful laugh. Feyre tried to scowl at her but found her face softening instead. Her sister was such a serious person, face immobile, sunken into a specific grimness. And yet when she found something worthy of amusement, which was a rare occurrence indeed, she positively howled. It was strange for Feyre, the way the past year had changed her family’s dynamic, but she wouldn’t change it for the world.

Even if it meant having to continue her life with a stained conscience, and even more stained heart.

She eventually joined her sister’s laughter attack, chuckling, “I’m _serious_! I take pity on whatever poor bastard she will end up seeing as fit for her. The boy won’t know what he’s gotten himself into till he got a ring suffocating his finger. Innocent Archeron, _my ass_!”

Nesta lovingly shook her head, before shifting her features back into calm impassiveness. as if the funny conversation had never taken place. She continued working on her hair.

She could feel Feyre’s silent assessment burning the side of her face, and her jaw tensioned , waiting for the change in topic.

“It’s almost time to welcome the first guests.”, Feyre said softly, cautiously.

“I’m aware.”

“You’d normally be ready by now. You’d actually be the first to leave her chambers, wide awake, perfect condition. Now you’re not even done with your hair.”

Nesta closed her eyes, listening to her sister’s quiet steps as she approached her. Her brush was taken from her hand, and Feyre took over the task. 

“Are you having second thoughts?”, Freyre asked after a while.

Nesta opened her eyes, watching their reflection in the mirror. Same ice-blue orbs met her stare, one not-so-well-kept eyebrow arching in question.

“Of course I’m not”, she responded. “This is good. This is needed. We’ve dwelled in shadows long enough. It’s time to open the gates.” 

Feyre hummed. “There’s something on your mind.”

“There’s always something on my mind.”

“You can stay here if it pleases you. Elain and I can handle them just fine.”

“It will only serve as an opportunity to create more rumors. I’m _fine_.”

Feyre tugged hard on her hair.

“You _bitch_!” Nesta snapped, baring her teeth “What was _that_ for?”

“Tell me why you’re depressed, asshole!”

“I’m no such thi-”

“You look miserable! Is it that the Van Tieghems are coming?”, she asked incredulously, “We’ll bloody obliterate them!” At that Nesta had to roll her eyes. “Nasty witches.”, Feyre ended by grumbling under her breath.

It was the morning of the Winter Solstice, Feyre’s birthday. Normally, she would avoid a party thrown in her favor at any cost, ripping all decorations with her teeth , if needed be. But this year was different, for it was the first without their father. And that was definitely not the root of Nesta’s mood, as it was a breath of fresh air. But she had started hearing dangerous words whispered between people in Larsos and beyond, not long after their 40 days of mourning. And they had to put them to an end, or else they’d drag them into facing the consequences of their own actions, which was, as expected, not on Nesta’s priority list.

Past times are long since buried underneath the ash.

And that’s where they had to remain. 

So the festivities in Feyre’s honor were necessary. A way for the world to enter their home and see for themselves that they were fine, and there certainly was nothing rotten about them, as much as the world’s hunger for poor gossip and drama seemed to lead to another conclusion.

Easy. Right?

“Nonsense. You know I want the Van Tieghems here. “, Nesta said.

And it was true, as one of the three most influential families in Larsos, the Tieghems had to be present today. Any people of high standing had to, as a way to assure them, and by so, the rest of the world, that the Archerons had not become a weaker link now due to their father’s death.

Or that they had any role in it.

“I just,” Nesta continued, watching as Feyre started to gather her hair in Nesta’s signature braided bun. “You know I’ve waited for the opportunity to level the waters for a while now, to get back to normal. So I actually can’t wait for this whole ordeal to begin so it can end already. But . . .”, she took a look at her dead plants, Feyre’s eyes following hers. “ I can’t help but feel that something is . . . wrong. I-” 

Words caught in her throat. She couldn’t even begin to explain what she felt, what she had been dreaming about. Nor did she think she wanted to, as if saying it outloud would engrave them into fate.

Feyre sensed her hesitancy. “Perhaps it’s just stress.”, she said, doing the last retouches n her hair. “We’ve been cooking this up for months now, and now that the day when we finally put it out in execution has arrived, I think it’s normal to feel anxious.”

Nesta let her eyes wander to those plants again.

“But,”, Feyre added, a little more quiet than before “It’s a good plan, and it’s a good story. Every detail of it is in check. And even if it wasn’t. A good story, I mean. We’ve got this. We’re Archerons, we get through. “

“And besides”, she said, now looking straight in the mirror, as if trying to convince her reflection as well. “Everyone is concerned about the Red Murders. It will be easy to step out of the light and focus their attention to discussing that matter instead.”

Nesta took a few seconds to let her sister’s words sink in, and attempted to nod, though it looked as if she was fighting a grimace instead. Eager to let the whole conversation slip away, and to lighten the mood, she opened the drawer on her right, and pulled out a square silver box. Already feeling Feyre’s surprise and giddy excitement, Nesta turned in her chair and placed the box in her hands.

“Happy birthday, Feyre.” , she said softly.

Feyre’s eyes were hilariously wide, but Nesta couldn’t judge her. It was strange, very much so. They didn’t use to give each other gifts before, but something has shifted in the last year, and they swore to start new. So she was starting new, even if gift-giving, or receiving has never been an enjoyable activity for Nesta. 

“Well open it up already, we don’t have all day!” Nesta said , straightening her back.

At that Feyre snorted and lifted up the box’s lid. Her brows furrowed a little as she lifted the circular piece of silver.

“I know you’re not a big fan of jewelry,” Nesta went on,” but you’re _expected_ to be.” 

Feyre rolled her eyes, even if a smile threatened to appear on her face.

“And I figured, that if you were to wear ornaments, you might as well wear some that bear utility. Something that screams . . .”, she gestured with her hand, “Feyre.” 

At her sister’s confused face, Nesta took the arm bracelet in her hands and showed her its most intriguing part. The bracelet would look as if a snake was wrapped around her arm, but if she were to pull the snake’s head, that’s when she would discover the true present. Nesta did just that, and Feyre’s eyes widened ever further as she saw the flexible blade that came out of the bracelet. It was not an overly intimidating weapon, a slender, short rapier. But it had the potential of being deadly, if used cleverly. And in Feyre’s hands, Nesta had no doubt it would be put to good use. 

“Well?”, Nesta asked as she saw Feyre was not going to say anything anytime soon.

Her sister closed her hanging mouth, then and managed to say. “Well . . . that definitely screams Feyre.” And then a grin split her face, and she threw herself into her sister’s arms.

“IT’S AMAZING!”, Feyre squealed, and Nesta was fighting some mixed feelings of being happy because of her sister’s excitement and being slightly annoyed by it.

“How did you even find it?”

Nesta just gave her a smirk and walked towards her full length mirror, making sure her dark blue velvet dress was all in perfect condition. She watched the reflection, eyes on the background, where she could see Feyre trying to get her puffed sleeve out of the way so that she could try the bracelet on. She also took the blade and sliced her finger a little to see how sharp it was.

It was very sharp. Nesta would know best.

“Thank you, Nesta. Truly.”

“No problem.” She turned back to her and her lips curled in distaste, making a beeline for her closet. “Let’s find you another dress.”

The relief on Feyre’s face was almost comical.

Elain Archeron was going to find her sisters and turn them into fertilizer for her new camellias that she had gotten her hands on thanks to a very sweet lady she encountered in the market. 

She had been awake for 5 hours now, making sure everything was going according to plan in terms of decor, and she still had yet to see any sign of her sisters presence in the house. Servants were all around the place, making now some final touches to the ballroom.Well, at least the ones they still had were. They truly needed to find some new helpers.

Despite being still morning, they were expecting some guests quite soon. Being the first time Feyre had agreed on having a celebration done for her, albeit due to completely other reasons than her birthday, they were anticipating the arrival of a generous amount of people. Everyone wanted to finally take a look at the youngest Archeron sister, who had kept herself out of the public eye until now.

That, or they wanted to get their noses where they didn’t belong and see if they actually could be accused of murder.

Shaking off the thought, Elain focused on the flower arrangements she had assembled at the entry, while also concentrating on keeping her balance on the ladder she was perched on . She found some difficulty keeping her mind from wandering these days. Something felt off, apart from Prythian’s current situation. She wondered how wise it was to throw a grand party while the country bled at the hands of a serial killer. Even if she was painfully aware of the impossibility of anything of sorts happening in Larsos . . . especially on Archeron ground. Yet . . .

“Oh, Alis!”, she said as the woman walked by her, carrying what looked like one of Feyre’s dirty dresses. Oops.

“Have you seen or heard of my sisters?”

“Oh, yes, dear. Lady Feyre went into lady Nesta’s room a few minutes ago. Shall I go and tell them you are looking for them?”

“Oh, no, no, no.” Elain said quickly. “They’ll come when they’re ready. Thank you.” And on a second thought. “Also, you don’t have to wash those, Alis. Take them to my room please, I’ll take care of them.”

“Are you sure, lady Elain?” , she asked, looking down at the poor state of the dress.

“Very much so, please.”

“Very well, then. Say if you need help with anything else. The flower arrangement is coming along nicely.” And with that she left, making a few people in her way scrunch their noses.

Elain smiled to herself and shook her head. Looking outside the window to her right, she let herself get lost for a moment in the way snow has covered the land, except for a small patch next to the gates. Furrowing her brows, she decided on not reminding herself of the reason behind that peculiar aspect.

Bony hands settled on her waist and she almost fell off the damn ladder .Harshly turning her head, she glared at her older sister, who currently presented a barely-there smug smile on that icy face of hers.

“Nesta”, she hissed. “ _Not. Funny_.”

That only managed to get a widening of her smile, teeth showing. Elain pressed the back of her hand to her burning cheeks and carefully stepped down, making sure her pale pink dress was not in her way. She didn’t fancy falling on her ass.

Not that it had happened before . . .

“Where is Feyre?”, she asked once her feet when on solid ground.

“Getting changed.” Nesta simply responded, giving a pointed look in her direction.

Elain hummed innocently , and stepped back to admire her work. It looked pretty damn good, if she said so herself.

“Do you need any help?” 

“I could use some. There’s not much more to do, just help me get the rest of this materials and tools back to their place.”

Nesta hummed and gathered as much as possible in her arms.

“Did you give her her present already?” Elain asked as they were walking down the halls, smiling tightly at some of the servants passing by. 

“Yes, she found it to her liking.”

“Of course she did.”, Elain chuckled. After a moment of silence, she ventured on, voice dropping : “Is everything else in place?” 

“Yes. . .”, Nesta responded, eyeing the painting on the walls. “I checked everything three times last night before going to bed.”

“And was last night . . . “

“ _Yes_.” , she gritted out .Then a sigh. “I don’t know how to deal with it. I’ve yet to think of how to even break it to Feyre.”, by the end of the sentence her voice was a mere whisper.

Elain sighed, and opened the storage room’s ajar door with her hip. “Hopefully we’ll also find what we need today, and there will be no breaking to do.”

They put down their things and took a little time to sort out their thoughts.

“I never got to ask you what you got for her birthday.” Nesta said after a while, the shadows of their previous conversation still dancing along her sharp cheekbones.

Elain merely looked at her sister and grinned.

Oh it was going to be something indeed.

Feyre looked at herself in the mirror and nodded approvingly.

With some luck, she was able to find a short sleeved dress in Nesta’s closet, her new arm bracelet on full display. She touched it thoughtfully, if not slightly worried, wondering if the new route their life has taken would require her to eventually use such a thing. 

Sighing, she took her old, comfortable boots and put them on. Very Nesta-disapproved, but the grey material of her skirt was covering them.

Making her way down towards the central room, she was stopped every few meters by people in the estate wishing her a happy birthday. She answered them all with a smile, one which was surprisingly genuine. Both her sisters have mentioned in the past week that something felt off, and yet, Feyre couldn’t shake that feeling of rightness. As if something great was about to happen, despite the fact that she was about to spend her birthday in her least favorite way ; surrounded by an unnecessary amount of people. 

Finally arriving downstairs, she couldn’t help the slight grimace on her face. This really wasn’t her thing.

It was beautiful, and she could see the effort that has been put into it, but dear Lord did she dread the thought of being shown around to dozens of people by the end of the day.

_It’s necessary_ , she reminded herself.

No sooner had she finished her assessment of the place, than a soft knock sounded at the front door. One of their helpers was about to put down the box he was carrying , but she stopped him with an I’ll get it. 

She thought of yesterday’s conversation with her sisters, when they made bets as to who would show up first. Even if Feyre bet for the Dujardins, she secretly hoped it would be Lady Florence Bruna. She loved the old woman. 

Relaxing her face into a pleasant look, she opened the door.

And nothing could’ve prepared her for who was standing in front of her.

A face that was certainly not the wrinkly one of Miss Florence smirked down at her, and Feyre felt all the air leave her lungs.

“Ah, if I’m not mistaken, you must be the infamous Feyre Archeron”, Rhysand Sayyadi said, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips. “May I just say, I wish you the happiest of birthdays, darling.”

Well, _fuck._


End file.
